


A Hazy Shade of Winter

by amusedrhyme (lazarus_girl)



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 21:38:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17251844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/amusedrhyme
Summary: On duty with Lucille throughout the evening of Christmas Day, Valerie reflects on their growing closeness since Lucille’s arrival. Struggling with her feelings, she hesitates between giving her one last Christmas gift or keeping everything to herself.“It’s impossible not to love her.”





	A Hazy Shade of Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Biscay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biscay/gifts), [cassiopeiasara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeiasara/gifts).



> Follows canon. Draws upon the 2018 Christmas Special, but is actually set a year later, covering the Christmas of 1964 into 1965. After that gift of a Special with all those lovely moments for our girls, I was inspired and had to do something festive, and I think it’s just about still permissible to share. I listened to The Kingdom Choir’s version of ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ during the writing of this, and it's lovely, so you should too! A combination prompt for @pea-green and @cassiopeiasara that also ticks off many of the plot bunnies/headcanons that @iampenbot and I have created since I decided to write for this pairing. Enjoy! Characters from ‘A Kind of Loving’ also appear here (a.k.a you my version of Valerie’s family, mixed in with what we know from canon). Aside from this, the stories are unconnected, but it’s possible to consider them as such if you’d like to :) As always, shout out to @pirateboots and @carolrance for their editing and advice. Your input always makes what I write that much better. Title from the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name.

_“Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body,_  
_and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day.”_  
― Virginia Woolf, _Night and Day._

***

This will either be the best idea you’ve ever had or the worst; you’re not sure.

It’s closer to Boxing Day than Christmas now, awake because you’re on duty with Lucille, happy to trade shifts with Trixie to have New Year’s free instead. Usually, you’re twitchy during night shifts, just because you’re waiting for the phone to ring, forever poised to spring into action, but tonight – or rather, this morning – that’s not even the half of why you feel on edge.

Weeks ago, in the lead up Christmas, the idea of getting Lucille another gift, something special in addition to what you already planned to put under the tree, felt an entirely natural thing to do. Easy. Simple. Now, it feels too much. A ridiculous extravagance she’ll never accept, even if she does need it. It’s just another nurses’ watch, you remind yourself. A replacement after her own got smashed in mid-November, owing to a faulty pin clasp and an unceremonious trip to the bottom of the stairs. Ever since, she’s been using one of Trixie’s castoffs – and happily so, despite the fact it doesn’t keep time as accurately anymore – but it didn’t feel right. She shouldn’t just have to make do.

You got caught up in the moment see, nose to the glass outside the jewellers with Trixie at your side. Before long, you found yourself pointing out one of the watches and asking her if you should buy it for Lucille. _“I think it’d be a lovely gesture, Valerie_ ,” she’d said, with a soft smile. Her response felt more significant than it should have been, more weighted. Then again, isn't everything like that when it comes to Lucille? You can't remember a time in the last year – in the last two if you're being truthful – where every thought of her, where the mere mention of her name hasn't carried with it that very same weight.

So, you did buy it, and ever since, it’s gone in and out of your bedside drawer, courage to give it to Lucille coming and going with the passing weeks. In the end, Trixie pinned you down to the idea of giving it as a Christmas gift. She even helped you make the elaborate ribbon bow to _“set off the wrapping paper_.” Again, you let her carry you along, you let yourself forget that other people that _aren't_ Trixie and _are_ Lucille would deem it too much.

That’s why you’re sat on the bed with it now in your hands, staring down at it, contemplating stuffing it back in the drawer and forgetting it altogether. Trixie will likely never let it rest, but she’s the lesser evil, not least because she’s unlikely to break your confidence.

The fewer people know about this, the better.

During the gift opening this morning, she was glaring at you from her spot on the rug near Sister Julienne’s armchair, willing you to go and get it. But, you didn’t, not even when she mouthed _“Go!”_ while Lucille was distracted by her gift from Phyllis. You stuck with your original, which was itself quite special, but entirely less committal in a room full of people. You gave her a copy of _Jane Eyre_ , clothbound with gilt lettering on the spine. She had to leave so many of her favourite books behind on her journey to Poplar, and hadn’t found a good, clean hardback copy in all of her searching, even when she recruited you as a second pair of eyes. In the end, it took a thirty-odd minute bus trip, a lot of rummaging and barely any price negotiating to get it for her. No gaudy, cheap paperbacks for Lucille.

Honestly, the look on her face this morning was more than enough to repay what the prim, bespectacled elderly man behind the counter had asked you hand over for it.

 _“Jane!_ _You found Jane_ ,” she’d said with the brightest of smiles as she carefully removed the book from the paper to a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ from everyone else present. To Lucille, it’s not just a book. She looked at you as if you’d reunited her with a dear old friend. It’s not just a book to you anymore either, it’s on a list of things you know to be Lucille’s favourites, because of all the nights you spent with her talking about it with her, and swapping stories, stories one night, cocooned in blankets, sipping hot chocolate, not long after she arrived in Poplar. The second you heard her say ‘Jane’ you didn’t think of Jane Eyre at all. Instead, you thought of when you first heard her say your full name. Apart from your family, Sister Julienne, and Brigadier Gillespie, Lucille’s the only other person who knows your middle name is Jane. _“Valerie Jane Dyer,"_  she’d repeated, elongating it and making it seem special. The same softness and warmth was in her voice this morning, and the same light was in her eyes – a beautiful, pure kind of light that you’ve only ever seen in her.

For a moment, no one else was in the room. You often get that feeling at times like these.

She moved closer and whispered a gentle, reverent, _“Thank you”_ in your ear, hugging you far too long and far too tightly. _“You’re very welcome, darlin’.”_ You heard yourself saying, entirely caught up in the moment, enveloped in her and a cloud of sweet perfume. It was a newly spritzed gift from Trixie; another ploy in her mission to get Lucille to begin lavishing herself with some care and attention, after months of being under her tutelage, and experimenting with new clothes and the barest hints of make-up.

Through Trixie, as Phyllis so aptly put it recently, Lucille had, " _Come into bloom.”_

You’re so close to her that you didn’t really notice the change until men on the street would give her second and third looks, tossing out the odd wolf-whistle. Lucille never knew what to do except smile shyly and blush furiously, linking arms with you and holding on tighter, but you glared enough for the both of you – feeling the need to protect her more keenly than ever.

Except, that’s a lie. You did notice. You noticed the lipstick, the nail polish, the ever-so-slight rise in her hemlines – nowhere near your miniskirts and minidresses – but still significant for Lucille. There it is again, that word,  _significant._  But, you saw other things too. You saw her grow in confidence, stand taller, speak louder, apologise less, her shyness less obvious. You like to think that’s your influence.

I’m many ways; she’s so different from the shivering girl you welcomed in from the cold almost two years ago now – how quickly that time has passed comes as a surprise – but in others, she’s still the same. Warmth and love, beauty and light. How could you not be drawn to someone who exudes all those things? Who embodies all those things?

It’s impossible not to love her.

And that’s why you’re still here, still staring at this little box for the last ten minutes or more, praying for the phone to ring, imagining Mr Daley or Mr Jones on the other end, panicked and breathless, telling you that either one or both of their wives has gone into labour. Or maybe it’ll be Lois Wilson, one of Lucille’s young mothers – terrified and dealing with her pregnancy on her own until she came to Poplar and plucked up the courage to visit the clinic. You’d have a valid reason to escape all this then. You’d have a reason for Trixie not to berate you for cowardice when she woke up. You’d have a reason not to sit on the sofa with Lucille, listening to the radio, sneaking in a cup of tea and the last of Mrs B’s mince pies, chattering about everything and nothing to help keep yourselves awake like you have for the last few hours.

If you were smarter, you would’ve left your gift on her bedside table, so she’d spot it whenever she got to bed and said her prayers. You’d be rid of it then, all this awkwardness, this strange tension that’s been following you around since … well, for a long time. You’d have the nice bit of the reaction to it and none of the wondering about what’s right and wrong and what’s ‘too much’ or ‘not enough.’

You don’t know how it happened, but this gift has come to mean more than you ever meant it to. It feels like some kind of culmination of everything you’ve shared over the course of this year. A literal symbol of time spent well and never, _ever_ wasted with her. A symbol of your closeness – and you have gotten closer, not intentionally, just naturally. You’ve barely had a day without seeing her. Most of her evenings are spent in your and Trixie’s room, and you regularly accompany her to Mrs Palmer’s whenever she wants to go.

Out of respect, you’d always stay outside across the road, happy to lean on the wall and wait, listening for their voices to rise up once the singing started. You love listening to them, hearing the joy and the pride in their voices, understanding why Lucille gets such comfort from her faith, even if you don’t entirely share in it. These days, Mrs Palmer welcomes you inside, and you sit amongst the assembled congregation with tea and cake. You’re welcome, even as a non-believer. Just this week, you were invited out carolling with them, and you went, arms linked with Lucille all the way, walking in the light dusting of snow. With Lucille’s encouragement, you sang along.

That’s the moment you think, when things really began to change with you and Lucille, when you saw her sing with them instead of just hearing it. Last Christmas Eve, when you came back from the Mother House to the sounds of ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’ echoing through the halls of Nonnatus. As soon as she saw you enter the chapel, something seemed different. That soft smile you’d seen so often was bigger, brighter, and when she briefly took your hand and squeezed it by way of hello before she took her place with choir, she held it tighter. Seeing her like that, so content, so at peace, so at _home,_  having finally found some sense of the belonging she’s craved all the while with those wonderful people you were yet to know as well as you do now, was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen or heard.

Except for her.

In those minutes, your heart was so full of wonder, of pride, of … _love_ that you couldn’t contain it. Only when you looked at Trixie, and she dabbed a tissue at your obviously running mascara with a gentle “ _Oh sweetie_ ,” did you realise that you’d been crying just like her. They were the most joyous you’ve ever shed. They all stayed for more songs and the best spread you’ve seen Mrs B lay on, with every chair or what could pass as a chair being used to gather everyone together. Suddenly, the table in the kitchen was far too small but no one minded. You had one too many glasses of sherry and ended up confessing far too much to Trixie as a result when she put you to bed. Once you started on how wonderful the day had been, and how equally wonderful Lucille was, it just slipped out, alcohol loosening your tongue.

_“I love her, Trix. I love her.”_

That confidence too, remains unbroken.

Even in that state, it came as surprise, saying it to her at the same time you realised it for yourself.

All she said, punctuated with a kiss to your forehead as she tucked you in, was _“I know you do, sweetie. I know.”_

There was no shock, no confusion, no disgust. It was as if you’d told her that night follows day, reeled off phases of the moon or capital cities. A tangible fact. The fear and the panic about what she thought or how obvious it was didn’t settle in until the next day. Around the same time a horrendous headache took up residence in your skull, and wouldn’t be shifted, even when Trixie bought you water and painkillers in the morning. How you survived the clinic and the seemingly never-ending stream of babies in the weighing queue, screaming the moment you put them down, you’ll never know.

Trixie really did seem to take it as a statement of fact. There’s been no teasing and no exaggerated knowing looks like Evie and Marnie would always wear when you were vaguely near a boy at school. You’re not sure they’d react in the same way now, but you don’t plan on testing that theory too soon.

Honestly, you expected the joy you felt on that night to dissipate, or at least dim a little, but it hasn’t. Not one bit. If anything it’s gotten stronger, and whatever you feel seems to intensify around Christmas time, because the season is so bound up with meaning. As soon as it starts to turn colder, you automatically think of the snow and the bitter night in January when she arrived. You think of her and how deeply important she’s become. How you didn’t really know you needed her until she was there. Lucille tells you as much often, seeing your presence in her life as some kind of blessing or a miracle. You don’t quite believe that, but she does, and that matters. She expresses herself much more easily and eloquently than you can ever hope to. Her heart is more open than yours.

You had to protect yourself and build up walls. You just had to do it, because of the Army, because of the world, because of things you weren’t allowed to feel. So solid, so sturdy were those walls, you never let yourself think anyone would have the audacity to knock them down. Many people have tried, and just as many have failed, but Lucille isn’t one of them. She’s taken those walls down, slow and steady, brick by brick, and it doesn’t even feel like an invasion. You let her in, not always easily, but gladly.

This is the problem you see. This is what you have trouble with. You never needed anyone before. You’ve been brought up to be strong and independent. Dyer women are steady and resilient. You know how not to depend on people, to need them, but _oh_ , you need Lucille. Sometimes, the need is so desperate that it carries its own kind of weight, but it’s a kind you can’t begin to measure.

You’re being ridiculous, you know you are. It’s just a gift. A gift for someone you care deeply about, but still just a gift. You think it might be easier if this were just some silly crush, like when you were young, but it isn’t because you know Lucille feels something. You don’t know what exactly, and you can’t begin to define it, because you’ve never known someone like her before and no one looks at you like she does.

Maybe it doesn’t matter that you don’t really know. All that matters is you have it. You keep thinking of that line in _Jane Eyre_ that’s Lucille’s favourite; she’s recited it back to you so often that you know it by heart yourself, but seeing it today on the page, sitting next to her as she traced her fingers across the old paper with its yellowing edges, made it matter more than it ever had before: _‘Make my happiness – I will make yours.’_

They’re not just pretty words anymore.

You look down at the box, one last time, fussing at the ribbon, and then up and over at Trixie’s sleeping form in the bed opposite.

The mere thought of her intervening is enough.

Before you can talk yourself out of it all again, you cross the room, slipping out and shutting the door behind you as softly as you can. You take the stairs slower still, with your shoes in one hand, and Lucille’s gift in the other, managing not to make any of the ancient floorboards creak. Everyone will likely be woken when the phone inevitably rings, but for now, the peace matters.

When you turn the corner toward the living room, you hide the gift behind your back. Lucille is very much where you left her, the room lit only by the lamps either side of the sofa on which she’s sat. You expected her to make a cheeky little joke about where you’d been, but there’s nothing. She’s nowhere near as bright, looking down sadly at the mug of tea she has cupped in both hands.

“Penny for ‘em?” you say, moving closer, aiming for the light and breezy Valerie she’s used to.

Immediately, her head snaps up, and her demeanour changes completely. “There you are!”

There it is, that bright, luminous smile, just like in the chapel. Just like at the carols. Just like when you took yet another group of the Baby Ballet girls to see _Mary Poppins_ on your on afternoon off, and you sat together, hiding your contraband violet creams from everyone else’s view, sneaking one every so often. Just like on the walk home after you’d ferried the girls home, with Angela as the last stop. Again. After that, it was just the two of you, slightly giddy from the girls’ excitement and far too many violet creams, singing ‘A Spoonful of Sugar,’ wordperfect after seeing it twice in as many days, at the top of your lungs.  _"_ _They think you’re just like Mary you know, Valerie. They adore you._ ” The look in her eyes – so sweet, so loving, made you ache – made you stop walking and stop singing. _“They do.”_ she repeated, looking you right in the eyes all the while.

You wondered, not for the first time, if Lucille wanted to kiss you, but was too afraid to do so.

The thought was too much, and flew out your head as fast as it came.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to leave you in the lurch,” you cross the room, skidding slightly only in your tights, shoes discarded at the end of the sofa long ago.

“It’s fine,” she replies, sipping on her tea. You take advantage of the fact she’s not looking at you and hide the gift behind a sofa cushion.

It doesn’t feel right to give it to her now.

“Lu,” you rest your hand on her knee. It’s a risk, but you just want to comfort her.

“I’m fine really, I just … it hits me sometimes, you know?”

She looks anything but fine really, and it finally clicks. She’s homesick. She misses her family. Of course she does! 

“I know how hard it is. When I was in the army, home felt so far away.”

That’s putting it lightly. You missed Evie and Marnie and everyone so much you’d cry yourself to sleep, and you’d hate to think of her feeling that way, and putting on a brave face so you don’t see any of her pain.

“You must think I’m quite silly. You’ve tried so to include me, to make Poplar feel like home and bring me into your family,” she looks away, putting her tea down on the coffee table. There’s another cup poured out that you’re yet to drink. “I must seem ungrateful.”

“Not at all!” you reply, taking her hand and giving a reassuring squeeze.

It doesn’t get to her often – she loves it here, she’s told you as much – but you know it’s hard for her when she’s alone at night. Harder still at birthdays and during Christmas.  You’ve tried to make sure she was included in things, brought her along to every family gathering you’ve had since she arrived to stave off that loneliness, but now you wonder if you’ve made it worse for her after all.

“I never wanted to try and replace your family,” you offer, sheepishly, feeling strangely guilty, wondering if she came with you under duress or out of politeness.  Your lot are so loud, so mouthy; she barely gets a word in edgeways at the best of times.

“Oh Valerie no, don’t ever think that!” she’s quick to cut off that train of thought, and your relief is palpable.

She fit in with everyone so easily you see, right from the first afternoon tea with your mum, where you could read the nervousness all over her face, and see it in the slight telltale trembling in her hands when she picked up her teacup, up until this week, when she came with you to help your mum with the marathon Christmas dinner vegetable prep. Eager to help, as soon as she shrugged off her coat and was put on peeling duty, mucking in like she’d been there all her life. In all the other moments in between when she came for Sunday dinner after service at the Palmers. Like when she was given Dyer family history chapter and verse by your Uncle Pete, with mum and Evie showing off all the embarrassing baby pictures they could find, never sparing your blushes. When she plays tea parties with little Alice or comes with you and Anthony to the Recreation Grounds. When she comes in for a cup of tea and a gossip and invariably ends up dealing with Evie’s latest pregnancy ailments (the fact she asks you too notwithstanding) or Eddie’s daft jokes that somehow make her laugh. When she comes with you to _The Sail_ for the monthly ‘Dyers Only’ lock in. She’s developed a taste for bitter lemon (and the odd half of bitter), but she’s appallingly, adorably, bad at playing darts, no matter how many times you’ve tried to show her.

You don’t even have to ask her to come with you anymore, she just does. With some rare exceptions – your aunts Jean and Grace, and your other relatives from that particular branch of the Dyer family tree are conspicuous by their continued absence, but you don’t let it get to you anymore – they’ve accepted her enthusiastically, with open arms. If they have questions or objections, they’ve never raised them. Only your mum commented directly upon it, saying how _“Nice it is for you to have a proper friend”_ (when she’s not worrying that there’s _“nothing of you,”_ convinced the Sisters aren’t feeding you well enough).

After Trixie, the closest you got to admitting something was with Uncle Pete, while he caught you off-guard during a sneaky cigarette on the back step.  _“You’re happier than I’ve seen you in a long time,”_ he’d said, and you nodded along, looking back toward the living room, watching Lucille on the sofa, chatting to your mum and Evie, with Anthony on her lap playing cars. _“I suppose I can stop worrying about you now then, eh?”_ he continued, passing his cigarette to you for a quick drag. _“A lot to do with that lovely girl in there I reckon.”_

You didn’t give him any kind of reply, and you regret letting the opportunity to talk pass. Silence can mean more than sound, and be just as incriminating. His words come back to you often, because you hadn’t really made that connection until he did it for you.

“It’s just, you see, I love Nonnatus,” she pauses, struggling to find the right words, “but, it’s so quiet sometimes, and I miss the noise. I miss the busyness of our house, with all my brothers and sisters and all our family squashed round the dinner table,” her voice breaks, and she squeezes your hand tightly. It’s only then you realise she’s been holding it all this time. “I miss it so much, Valerie. I miss _them_.”

Your heart sinks a little at that, and you look away. It makes you desperately sad that she feels this way. You hate that for all you’ve done, it’s not enough.

“But,” she continues, after a moment, and you turn back to look at her, “when I’m with you and your family, it reminds me so much of them that it’s like they’re here with me.”

“I’m so glad,” you manage, feeling yourself start to choke up a little. You can’t help but think how many people aren’t at those gatherings anymore. You miss Marnie even more at this time of year, and the fact your dad will never get to meet Lucille or anyone else at Nonnatus now, or even see you as an adult cuts deeper today than it ever has, because she’s not just a friend anymore. She’s become so much more than that.

“I wish you could’ve gotten more than a phone call today,” you reply, really wishing she did have more than the tinny long-distance phone line as a point of contact, or letters that sometimes take weeks to arrive.

“I wish you got to do more than speak to my mother on that terrible line,” she pauses, looking right at you when she says, “I write about you all the time.” You open your mouth to make comment, but close it again when she continues with, “Most of my letters are about you,” before hurriedly adding, “and Trixie and everyone of course.”

“I hope you only tell her the good bits!” you reply, feigning horror. “She must think I’m a terribly bad influence! Cocktails, cigarettes, afternoons at the pictures in the back row!”

She laughs, her whole face lit up with bright smile when she shyly admits, “No, she thinks you’re wonderful … so do I.”

You smile at that, remembering hearing Hortense’s voice on the line, even with the crackling, you could hear the echo of Lucille within it. The same softness, the same preciseness with words. _“So wonderful to speak with you Miss Dyer, Valerie, after all this time.”_

The fact Lucille gave some of that precious phone call time to you hadn’t gone unnoticed by anyone, least of all you. Another bit of significance. Phyllis gave you a look of such fondness from her spot by the duty board; you had to turn away from her to keep talking.

You’re Lucille’s friend, that’s all. _‘A dear friend’_ as she’d once written to Hortense (you read it by accident, unfinished on her bedside table), but that’s all you are. It’s all you can let yourself be.  Even so, you’re close to saying how you feel. So close to letting go of it all at once. Just to have those thoughts in the world instead of rattling around in your mind for perpetuity. There’s nothing wrong with love? How could there possibly be anything wrong with how Lucille makes you feel?

“I’d love to meet her one day,” you blurt out, without really thinking. “All your family. I want to see where you grew up.”

“I’d love to take you,” she replies, softly, and you can see her eyes are brimming with fresh tears. “They’d love you.”

There’s another squeeze of your hand. She’s still holding it, her fingers laced with yours.  There’s no letting go for fear of being seen this time like when they took Marjory Chivvers away in the ambulance. Lifetimes ago.

It’s too much now, all of this feeling. The words you drunkenly slurred to Trixie are on the very tip of your tongue. It’d be so easy to say, but so hard to take back if they proved too much for Lucille to hear.

“Best stock up on the sun lotion now, eh?” you deflect with a laugh. “Dyers never tan; they burn!”

Your joke breaks the strange, heavy tension, dulls the wanting. Just a little.

“You’re so fair, you’d last about five minutes!” she laughs, but it’s with you, not at you, so it just makes you laugh all the more.

“Cheeky!” you say, nudging her with your shoulder, and she smiles again.

It feels like you’re the only two people in the world.

She’s right, Nonnatus is too quiet, but with her, that silence isn’t so terrifying.

For what feels like a long time, you just sit there, still holding hands, not really thinking about when the phone might ring, your nursing bag, or finding the nearest phone box between Zetland Street and the Cable Tower flats to call Nonnatus and share news of one of your ladies only to find you need to go and help with the delivery of the other.

The lull in conversation has made you bold or stupid, you’re not sure. You finally have enough courage to give her the gift. You hope.

It’s now or never.

Reluctantly, you let go of her hand, and Lucille looks up at the sudden loss of contact, reaching to get the gift from its hiding place.

“Before, I went to get you something,” you say, turning toward her, holding the gift tight in both hands. “I saw it, and I thought of you.”  Your mouth is dry suddenly, and you find yourself addressing the shiny ribbon bow instead of Lucille.

When you finally pass it to her, your fingertips brush with hers accidentally.

“You already got me a gift,” she declares, around a quiet little gasp. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“I should,” you tease. “That dress, all the hours you put into making it!”

That’s been the greatest surprise of the day, but then, not at all, because it’s Lucille. She bought the beautiful but expensive fabric you so admired on one of your many trips to Vi’s shop, and worked with her in secret to make you a dress modelled after one Trixie saw in the window of Biba that even she wouldn’t even dream of buying. Lucille’s version is hanging pride of place on the front of the wardrobe. You can’t wait to wear it tomorrow to your fourth and final dinner at your auntie Florrie’s. Everyone will be there. Lucille included, her place at the table set right next to yours, just like it has for every other Dyer family meal.

“It was my pleasure,” she replies. “It looks beautiful on you.”

She holds your gaze just a little too long, and you can feel yourself blushing. You tried it on before sitting down together for dinner, letting Trixie play dress-up with you, ending up in her white knee-high boots and sunglasses that, as Lucille sweetly put it, made you look _“Just like Audrey Hepburn in Charade.”_ It didn’t matter that you felt a little ridiculous being Trixie’s doll, or that the glasses were a cheap knock-off, not with how Lucille was looking at you, reflected in the mirrored doors of the wardrobe. _“That fits you like a glove, I’m green with envy!”_ Trixie declared, beaming, but all you could take in was the look on Lucille’s face. It was so much more than happiness or pride in her and Violet’s work.

You ignore how your heart races. You can’t go there. You can’t. 

“And, this is my pleasure,” you echo, encouraging her. “Please open it.”

Just like before, she’s careful, working to untie the ribbon bow, trying not to tear the wrapping paper at all. She has the box in her hands now, and that dry mouth feeling is back. Now you’re willing the phone to ring, but it’s stubbornly, infuriatingly, silent. There’s a little creak when she opens the box, and she looks up at you in disbelief. 

 _“Valerie_ ,” she says, in the same soft, reverent voice as this morning. “This is too much!” she lifts the watch from the box, angling it towards the light. “It’s beautiful.”

“That knackered, old thing of Trixie’s barely keeps time!” you deflect, feeling shy and embarrassed all of a sudden. “Don’t worry, it fits with regulations, I just wanted it to be a little nicer.”

“It’s more than a little nice!" Then, she turns it, and sees her initials _L.M.A_ on the underside, and lets out an awed gasp. "Goodness!”

 _Lucille Marie Anderson_. You’re the only person who knows that too.

“Valerie, honestly,” she says, shaking her head. Quickly, she sets the empty box on the table, takes off Trixie’s old watch, and puts it in the box you gave her. “I don’t know how to begin to thank you.”

“There’s no need,” you assure. “You deserve it.”

The look you get from her says she doesn’t believe you for a second.

She turns the new watch over in her hands, fingertips stroking the shiny silver links, they’re more delicate than the old one, pretty as opposed to functional like the older models.

A perfect keeper of time. 

It’s ridiculous to be so fascinated by watching her like this, just _being_ in the world, but you are. Fixing it in place on her uniform, she looks down at it with pride, touching the glass of watch face cautiously, as if she’s scared she’ll break it.

“Perfect,” you say quietly.

She lifts her head back up, beaming at you. “You’re too good to me. Too kind.” 

You shake your head, growing hot again with embarrassment.  “You deserve it,” you swallow back down all the other words that want to come rushing out. Words like, ‘you mean the world to me,’ words like ‘I love you.’ Instead, you add, “Couldn’t have anyone stealing it for themselves, could I?” punctuating it with a laugh.

“No, certainly not!” is all she gets out before her arms are around you again. 

The suddenness of it makes you stiffen against her at first; wary suddenly that someone might appear. Sister Monica Joan on a late-night wander perhaps. Then, you just give, relaxing, putting your arms around her in return. You can’t help it when you pull her closer. You can’t help how the feeling of her breath on your neck makes you shudder.

“Thank you,” she whispers. You let your eyes close just for a moment, and just hold her, your palms flat against her shoulders. She squeezes you tightly, like she never wants to let go.

“Valerie … I … you,” she starts, corrects herself, stops again, pulling back to look at you, her voice shaky when she adds, “Where would I be without you?”

_Oh Lucille. Dear, darling Lucille._

You let your hands fall to your sides, just watching her, because something has changed. Is changing … right in front of you.

She’s said those words to you countless times, but they sound different and they feel different, like they really aren’t the same words at all. For once, her face tells you nothing, her expression unreadable, no matter how you study her. She leans forward, hesitates, and moves closer still. Before you can think of saying anything, she presses a light kiss to your cheek, her hand cupping the other side of your face.

It lingers just a little too long, and you can feel her trembling.

You blink back surprise, reeling, trying and failing to find the right words in the long seconds unfolding between you. No sudden moves, you don’t want her to panic. She pulls away from you slowly, but you catch hold of her wrist, hoping it steadies her, comforts her somehow. Now, you know exactly what her face is saying. It’s a mixture of fear, curiosity, and adoration. You know it well. You never thought she’d be the one to cross whatever remained of the blurred line between you.

Now, there’s no line there at all. It’s terrifying.

You swallow hard, mouth dry, heart racing, trying to hold back, to keep everything together, simply because that line is gone. You’re the protector. You’re _her_ protector. All you want to do is kiss her back, to quiet that fear and confusion, to try and stem the tide of feeling you know is coursing through her, but you can’t. Not here. You shouldn’t, anyone could see. The risk is too great. And yet, you can’t help it, you’re moving, fingertips gently ghosting over her arm and up to her shoulder, gripping lightly, as you lean toward her, watching, waiting for any kind of sign that she doesn’t want this.

There isn’t one.

You brush your lips against hers, with barely any pressure at all before you pull away again, just a little. She lets out an unsteady breath, watching you, still looking so unsure of herself. So wary of that tide, unsure at how those waves will break. You let her come to you, and her kiss is just as light, just as careful. When you move to kiss her a second time, she inhales sharply when you press that little bit harder, and you think its too much, until you stop thinking at all, because this is real now. She’s kissing you back in this gentle, cautious way.

For a moment, you just let go. Sink into it willingly. What a good way to drown.

All you can focus on is the softness of her lips, and the warmth of her mouth – that sweet, _perfect_ mouth – to the sound of her breathing and how it shifts into her sighing into your mouth when you deepen those kisses, one after the other.

It’s just you and her, the flickering Christmas lights and the low, rolling sound of the BBC World Service. Everyone and everything else just drifts out of mind. It’s perfect and beautiful and nothing like you ever thought it would be when you dared let yourself dream.

Until, it isn’t.

Until there’s the piercing, horrendously loud ringing of the telephone, yanking you out of that depthless, beautiful calm, and back into the real world.

For a moment, you both sit there, paralysed with fear, breathing hard with your foreheads resting together. The third ring is enough to make you move, and kick into high gear. You pull away and Lucille’s the one to rush toward the sound. She leaves you there on the sofa, giddy and breathless, not quite able to believe what just happened, feeling her loss of contact keenly.

“Nonnatus House, midwife speaking.”

Your training kicks in as soon as you hear her say it. You’re not Valerie anymore, you’re Nurse Dyer again, and she’s Nurse Anderson, her voice clear, even, soothing down the line (so many of your ladies say so). You rush toward her, grabbing her bag and cape to save some time, watching as she nods along to whoever is on the other end of the line, checking her watch, and then scribbling furiously on the notepad by the phone before turning it toward you.

 _4:28 am_. _Lois Wilson, 18. Balfron Tower_.

Your heart sinks a little as you read. Thinking of her all alone in that cold, dingy high-rise, struggling to get to the phone box. Even from this distance, you can hear the panic and the desperation in Lois’ voice.

The baby is over a week early.

“It’s alright sweetheart, I know, I know  …  We can do this together, you and I … I’ll be with you as quick as I can … I promise you,” she puts her hand over the receiver, and looks at you, her face etched with concern, and it makes your heart ache in an entirely different way. “Can you keep her calm until I get there?”

“Of course, you go,” you say, holding out the bag and cape for her to take, knowing you can’t leave Lois unattended for too long. “If you need anything, you phone me?”

She nods, squeezing your hand briefly before she takes everything from you. You both know the gesture is significant, and for the first time ever, she looks torn, reluctant to leave you, or to leave Lois alone. To make it easier on her, you say nothing else, watching as she rushes away towards the front steps and the bike sheds.  You turn away when the front door slams, knowing you have to refocus. You can deal with what happened and what it all might mean later on. Lois needs you at your best.

“Lois, darlin’, are you there?  It’s Nurse Dyer, Valerie …"

You lean against the telephone table and keep talking, listening out for any sign of Lucille. It’ll only take her five or six minutes to cycle to St Leonard’s Road, you can all get quite a speed up,  but that must seem like an eternity to Lois, stuck in that tiny phone box. It even feels like one to you. 

"Yes, she’s on her way … Now sweet, I need you to take some deep breaths for me, that’s a girl … Good girl … Nurse Anderson will be with you quick as a flash, you’ll see!”

Finally, you hear the creak of the phone box, and then Lucille, rushed and breathless, but still the epitome of calm. To your relief, she tells you Lois will be fine, but it's likely that Baby Wilson will be born halfway between the pavement and the phone box.  You’re loathe to put the receiver down, especially when Lucille’s parting words are accompanied by a horrendous scream from Lois, but you have to keep the line as free as possible. Just in case any of your ladies go into labour.

So you wait, and wait. Turning over the evening’s events in your mind, pacing up and down as you wait for news of Lois or your other ladies. You check your watch too often, wondering how things will be once Lucille returns. You listen out for sirens, startling at every one. Five o’clock comes and goes, and you’ve walked yourself from excitement to fear and back again more times than you can count.

It’s already light by the time she returns with good news of Lois and the baby. When she sees you sat in the kitchen, cup of tea in hand, her whole face lights up in, smiling in her soft, sweet Lucille way, you know that everything and nothing has changed between you.

“Mother and baby are doing well,” she declares, bursting with pride. “Settled in the Maternity Home for the moment.”

“Thank goodness!” you reply, hand to your chest, relief palpable. “I heard sirens and assumed the worst.”

“It was touch and go,” she begins, dropping her bag with a weary sigh. “But, Lois pulled through, she did so well.”

Automatically, you go to help her out of her cape, as you’ve done so many times before. She doesn’t shirk your touch. If anything, she leans into it.

“Of course she did, she had you in her corner, didn’t she?” 

“She did.” Lucille shakes her head, smiling a little. “Come with me tomorrow, see them both?” she asks, when you move to join her at the table, knowing she’s about to record the birth in the ledger Phyllis insists you keep up with for the sake of Nonnatus records.

It’s become an important tradition for you all, and you’ll often read it when you come back in from a delivery or a day off, eager to catch up.

Your reply is quick. “I’d like that.”

She bows her head, smiling shyly.

It’s something you’ve done before for each other’s patients, making those initial checks seem more like a friendly visit, but it’s different now, loaded with meaning. Everything is.

You watch her write, elegant and neat, smiling to yourself when you realise the name Lois has chosen.

_Lucy Jane Wilson, 5 pounds, 8 ounces, 5:40 am, December 26 th, 1964. _

"What a pretty name,” you comment, reading it over once more.

“Isn’t it?  She’s a sweet little thing,” she replies, glancing up at you. “Lois wanted to give her a middle name, but didn’t know what. It was the first thing I thought of. I hope you don’t mind.” There’s an edge of nervousness in her voice you haven’t really heard before.

“Don’t be daft,” instinctively, you slide your hand towards hers where it rests on the table. Your hands almost touch, but not quite. “It’s lovely. I don’t think I deserve any kind of credit though.”

“I didn’t think Lucy Marie had quite the same ring,” she counters, with a small smile. She pauses, gauging your reaction before adding, “she looks like a Jane too.”

On the table, her hand moves closer to yours, fingertips brushing. Her gaze lingers, and she looks like she wants to say something else, but stops herself when there's movement coming from upstairs signalled by the telltale creak of the floorboards. She moves her hand away, and you step backwards, just in case anyone should appear.

You know that there's still much to be said, and those conversations will be nowhere near as easy as kissing her, but you know something is there. You felt it in every one of those kisses. Whenever you do get that time to talk, you won’t hold back, turn away or bury your feelings. Nor will you apologise for them. Not anymore.

Neither of you is really sure what to say or do in the interim either, naturally gravitating toward the kitchen. You pull out a chair and motion for her to sit down, because she’s clearly exhausted. As is your post-birth tradition, you make her tea from the freshly brewed pot and some toast to keep her going. It’s the comfortable silence.  Whenever you look over she’s watching, gazing at you with a mix of fondness and curiosity as you move around the kitchen.

When Phyllis, Trixie, and Sister Julienne appear shortly after, you’re both at the table, on your second cup of tea and another round of toast. Your chairs are so close that your knees are touching. Their morning chatter washes over you, and you listen again to Lucille as she recounts baby Lucy’s birth. Her naming is met with a warm round of applause, toasted with the clinking of teacups. While you listen, barely able to look at anyone but Lucille, all you can think of is the quote, _‘Make my happiness – I will make yours.’_ How right that is, how true, when it comes to Lucille.

She is your happiness and you are hers.


End file.
